Time on Hand
by kelly michelle fox
Summary: A quiet night in Gotham adds insult to injury.


Greetings from the GREAT ANemONe!!!!!  
  
I do not own Batman (insert very naughty thought involving some sort of bondage * ha ha *) or any other related characters. They are property of DC comics (lucky them).  
  
After being inundated by tremendous amounts of bothersome pleading from my best friend, I have relented. This story is being posted. I do not know where this is going, but keep coming back (and reviewing. it is a great motivator * B, you don't count. I know you love me. *), and you might get an ending.  
  
  
  
* The End is the Beginning* or * Chapter 1 *  
  
His face portrayed boredom, but his mind was fixed on one thing. The pain. The swelling. Nonchalantly, he placed both of his hands on the glossy surface of the long table before him. His eyes flit from one to the other comparing. The inner knuckles of his right hand were puffy and bruised; something he'd so far been able to hide by shoving it into a jacket pocket. Sitting at the head of the long, solid oak conference table, distinctly apart from the rest, he didn't fear that any wandering eyes would catch the purple and green that ran up the back of his hand nearly to his wrist. It hurt when he moved it. Hell, it hurt when he didn't. And he didn't need a doctor to tell him that it was fractured, hairline, probably along the lower end of his knuckle.  
  
He flexed his fingers several times, testing the pain, before slipping his hand under the table. It rested, unmoving, on his thigh in desperate need of an ice pack.  
  
In an attempt to dull the pain by ignoring it, he turned his full attention back to the weekly Friday morning board meeting. Despite the moment of utter remorse for his hand and the need of morphine, the activities of the squabbling group before him had managed to trickle into his brain, enough to know that no progress was being made. He smirked. It was typical. Until he stepped in with a radical and quite insane nudge in the right direction, nothing would be decided. He had to wait for the perfect instant, calculating for when his statement would produce the correct results. There were times when he longed to be blunt and direct, but to preserve an image he'd worked long and hard to create he had to settle with manipulative hints. Listening to his board members squabble made him lose patience.  
  
Leaning on his left arm, he yawned and his eyes drooped. The lack of subtlety in exposing his boredom finally caught the eye of his CEO, but the scolding gaze he received was avoided by swinging his chair sideways to stare out the window. It was a brilliant day, and oddly he found himself wanting to be out in it.  
  
His mind out in the sunlight, he clenched his broken hand without thinking. Scrunching his face was his only option to control the searing pain. Then he swore at himself under his breath.  
  
As if an answer, the familiar voice of CEO Lucius Fox brought him back to the board table. "Mr. Wayne. ?"  
  
For an instant he didn't move. He needed a moment to regulate his expression with his hand still throbbing. It turned out to be a perfect pause. The others believed he was half asleep.  
  
"Bruce." Lucius said sharply to draw his attention.  
  
"Hmmm?" Bruce pivoted his chair to face the table, playing the board members with a vacant expression.  
  
"Bruce." Lucius shook his head slightly, a hint of scolding in his voice.  
  
"What?" Bruce asked lightly. All the members at the table seemed faintly annoyed as they watched him.  
  
"You didn't hear what we asked, did you?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Lucius. It's just that we've been here so long, and you haven't included me. I just assumed."  
  
"Bruce." Lucius said quietly. "You're the President of this company and this is a board meeting." He said it as if it explained everything.  
  
"But."  
  
"How about we take a lunch break," someone down the table suggested.  
  
Bruce shrugged. "I'm game." He was the first from the table, not waiting for the others' approval, and he could sense their frustration with his flippant attitude. It was exactly the response he was striving for.  
  
Breezing out of the conference room, past his secretary, he disappeared into his own office without a word. Flipping on the light gingerly, to avoid inflaming his mauled hand further, he strode to his desk and plopped down in the expensive chair behind it.  
  
His first line of business was to attend to his hand. It throbbed and he could feel his heartbeat in it like a flush of poison. It was a familiar sign that something needed to be done, even with the irritating responsibility of finding a new, idiotic excuse for a wrapped hand.  
  
In the back of the bottom right desk drawer was a stash of medical supplies neatly packed into a first aide kit. He went straight for it, hoping for a sort of wrap. Plowing through it, he ran across an Ace Bandage and reminded himself to thank Alfred for his usual thorough nature. Using the lid of a CD case he found in one of the drawers as a splint, he finally wrapped his hand, tight and secure.  
  
Satisfied, Bruce kicked his feet onto the desk, leaned back in his chair, and waited for his expected visit from Lucius Fox. 


End file.
